


walk around your block (grow wings and fly above your city)

by shellybelle



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Love Letters to NYC, Music Stores, Nursey Week 2018, excessive music references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 22:54:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13623210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellybelle/pseuds/shellybelle
Summary: The record store is almost thirty years old, but Derek is ten the first time he walks inside.





	walk around your block (grow wings and fly above your city)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Nursey Week day 2, "10 years old/[summer, somewhere](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/58645/from-summer-somewhere) by Danez Smith", with the title taken from that poem: 
> 
> ask the mountain-boy to put you on  
> his shoulders if you want to see
> 
> the old world, ask him for some lean  
> -in & you’ll be home. step off him
> 
> & walk around your block.  
> grow wings & fly above your city.
> 
> It's honestly a gorgeous poem, go read the whole thing.

The record store is almost thirty years old, but Derek is ten the first time he walks inside.

 

He’s hit with the smell of dust and old paper and an overwhelming feeling that he’s stepped into a world of organized chaos. The stained glass door closes behind him, but he barely hears it, too busy staring in awe at the ceiling-height shelves, crammed tight with LPs and books, the decor sporadic and mixed--Star Wars posters hang next to ornately framed paintings, throw rugs on the floor mix with together with no care for pattern.

 

There’s a soft laugh somewhere to his left, and Derek startles. A middle-aged white man with flyaway white hair holds up his hands in a gentle motion, an obvious _easy_. “Sorry, son,” he says. “I just know the look. Your first time?”

 

Derek nods, not trusting his voice.

 

The man peers out the store window. “You got a parent coming in with you?”

 

Derek shakes his head. He’s not a latchkey kid, not really--he’s got plenty of after-school activities he could be doing, but his parents trust him at home if Marina can’t come to look after him. It’s only recently that he’s started leaving home and going out walking on those rare afternoons instead; he knows how to be safe outside on his own, and he feels freer with a Metrocard and the open air than he does just about anywhere else.

 

“I just wanted to look,” he says, because he might be ten but he knows how people like this look at kids like him when they go into stores and don’t buy anything, and if it’s gonna be a problem he wants to know now.

 

The man just smiles, easy. “Sure,” he says. “Anything in particular?”

 

Derek hesitates. He thinks about his dad’s collection. (It’s huge, a big bookshelf full of records. Ammi likes to joke that his dad took all the family music in the divorce, but she’s got a giant CD shelf next to the stereo in their living room, so he thinks she’s joking.) “I like jazz,” he offers.

 

“Over here, then.” The man gestures for Derek to follow him, but he hangs back.

 

“I can just look around,” he says. “If you’re busy or something.”

 

He gets a chuckle. “It’s a quiet day,” the man says. “And the organization of this place isn’t exactly--well, it’s a mess.” He holds out a hand for Derek’s, but doesn’t bend down to him like a lot of grown-ups do. “I’m Bruce.”

 

“Derek,” he says, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin, shaking hands firmly like his dad taught him.

 

Bruce seems to notice. “That’s a good handshake, Derek.”

 

“My dad says it’s important to make a good first impression and no one likes a noodle handshake.”

 

Another laugh. It’s kind, not mocking. “Your dad’s right,” Bruce says. “C’mon, jazz standards are over here.”

 

He leads Derek down a corridor and over to an open-faced shelf, records arranged like file folders. “You’ve got your big bands here,” he says, pointing. Derek peers up, sees familiar names--Count Basie, Dizzy Gillespie, Mel Lewis. “Instrumentals here, and vocalists kind of mixed in. You got some favorites?”

 

“I like Billie Holiday,” he says, a little shyly, and Bruce smiles.

  
“Me, too,” he says. He flips through a few of the albums and then pulls one out. “Should we put it on?”

  
Derek’s heart jumps. “Can we?”

 

Bruce winks. “It’s my store.”

 

He carries the vinyl over to a turntable by the checkout counter, takes off the current record and slips it into its sleeve before replacing it with Billie. He sets the needle, and Billie’s soft voice fills the room, _do nothing till you hear from me_ , the familiar strands of trumpet. Derek closes his eyes, letting it wash over him, sweet and soothing.

 

“Familiar, I take it,” Bruce says.

 

Derek opens his eyes. “Yeah.”

 

“Good. Kids your age ought to be listening to stuff like this, it’s good for your soul.” He smiles. “You go look around, explore. Let me know if you have any questions.” He pauses. “There a time you need to be getting home?”

 

Derek tries not to bristle at being treated like a kid. “Probably sixish,” he admits. Ammi and Mama get home from work around six-thirty, he’s got to be back in the apartment by then.

 

“You have a watch?” Derek shakes his head, and Bruce smiles. “I’ll let you know when it’s five-thirty. Time has a way of slipping away here.”

 

“Thanks,” Derek says, and means it. He gets a thumbs up in response, and then Bruce waves him off, a gentle _shoo_ ing motion. Derek grins and wanders away.

 

There’s more in the store than he was expecting. The records are everywhere, obviously--crammed tight into shelves, open and exposed in boxes, stacked up on the floor to the point where he starts walking more carefully, not wanting to knock anything over with his usual clumsiness. There are books, too--a lot of music theory, but biographies, too, and librettos and books of lyrics and even some poetry.

 

He stands on his tiptoes to reach a compilation of writings by Louis Armstrong, and carries the book down the corridor and over to a squat, plush leather armchair tucked into the back of the store. He sits down with it, then, after a few minutes, pulls his legs up and curls into a more comfortable position. He figures Bruce’ll come tell him if he’s not supposed to put his feet on the furniture, but the leather’s already scuffed and torn in a few places, and he sinks into the cushion like a knife into butter.

 

He wonders, a little absently, how many people have sat here before him.

 

The sky outside has darkened when Bruce clears his throat above him, startling him out of “Home Sweet Home.” “Oh,” Derek says, scrambling to sit up. “Did I stay too long? Sorry--”

 

Bruce shakes his head. “You’re okay, kiddo,” he says. “Just wanted to let you know it’s getting close to five-forty.”

 

Derek’s heart sinks. “Oh,” he says. He looks down at the book in his hands, and runs a finger over the cover. “If I come back tomorrow,” he says. “Could I buy this? Like--can you make sure no one gets it first?”

 

“Sure,” Bruce says. He holds out a hand for the book, and, a little reluctantly, Derek hands it over. “I’ll keep it for you for a week, how ‘bout that? So you don’t have to rush.”

 

Derek feels himself brighten. “Really?”

 

“Yeah, sure thing.” He grins. “Always good to have young people around, anyway. Maybe you’ll bring some friends along, huh?”

 

Derek doubts that--most of the other kids in his classes at Dalton aren’t super interested in old music. “Maybe,” he says anyway, because he doesn’t want to sound like he doesn’t have any friends. He does have a _couple_ , but they don’t come over a lot. It’s okay, he guesses. He likes hanging out with his family, though it’s less fun now that Farah’s away at school in Massachusetts.

 

He follows Bruce up to the front desk. Billie is still singing, crooning gentle notes of _Lady Sings the Blues_. “Thanks for letting me stay here,” he says. “I know you didn’t have to. I’ll have money next time, promise.”

 

Bruce tucks the Armstrong book carefully under the counter, then leans on the desk to look thoughtfully at Derek. “You don’t have to spend anything to be here,” he says.

 

Derek squints at him. “That’s not really true,” he says. Bruce raises his eyebrows, and Derek shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “My dad says not to go into stores if I’m not gonna spend anything, because it’s not safe.”

 

Something complicated flickers over Bruce’s face, and then his expression softens. “Well,” he says. “Not here. You hang here whenever you want.” His lips twitch. “This place can be kind of a bubble sometimes. Separate from the rest of the world. Everyone needs that sometimes.”

 

Derek thinks about that. “I think the whole city’s like that,” he says. Kind of quietly, because he’s never said this to a grown-up before. “I think it’s on its own planet. It’s not like anywhere else.”

 

Bruce smiles. “I think you’re right,” he says. “Not just because of the music, though I think that’s part of it. But it’s got its own special atmosphere.”

 

Relief goes through Derek, warm and bright. He _gets_ it. “ _Yeah_ ,” he says eagerly. “Exactly.” He hesitates. “I want to walk all over it, someday,” he says, softly. _Conspiratorial_. He had that word on his spelling test last week. “When I’m bigger. I want to walk the whole city and listen to everything and then write it all down.”

 

“Yeah?” Bruce grins. “Well, you do that. And when you write it all up, we’ll put your book right here in the window.” He points to the window display. “After all, people gotta know where to come to listen to the best parts, right?”

 

Derek grins back. “Right,” he says, and it feels easy to say. It doesn’t feel fake, like it does sometimes when adults tell him they’re sure he’ll write something someday. It feels like it might actually happen. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Bruce.”

 

“It was nice to meet you too, Derek,” Bruce says. He knocks his knuckles on the counter. “Don’t forget to come back for your book.”

 

“I won’t,” Derek promises.

 

He leaves through the stained glass door. Outside, the air smells like fried food and meat from the pub across the street, like cold winter wind, like home. Derek takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, like he can hold the scent of the city deep in his lungs if he breathes slow enough.

 

He hums Billie Holiday the whole way home.

**Author's Note:**

> 100% this was written at work while I procrastinated on my to-do list, I regret nothing.
> 
> New York-iness: Westsider Records is a real place, and Bruce is a real person! He's a delightful dude who will talk your ear off about NYC trivia, music history, and an absurd range of music information. Hopefully he won't mind me nabbing his character for this.


End file.
